


it bares its teeth like a light

by satellites (brella)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brella/pseuds/satellites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erica cocks her head and curls her crimson lips up higher. “Mmm. A badass, huh? Rowr.”</p><p>The growl does not make his knees shake. Nope.</p><p>“Hey, listen, do you, uh…” Stiles stutters out before his brain can catch up to what he’s about to ask. “Do you… wanna get, um, drinks? Sometime? In the future? I mean, uh, I’m actually a total lightweight, but we could… get peanuts, and, um, root beers, or Cokes, or whatever.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	it bares its teeth like a light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecivilunrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecivilunrest/gifts).



> 12 Days of Ficmas: Day One  
> lehayed requested: anything Stiles/Erica

“Well, look at that.” A chuckle, languid and smug. “I win again.”

The voice, smoky and bracing, is punctuated by the heel of a combat boot bearing down on Stiles’s jugular. His spurt of choked air makes a feeble cloud above him as he blinks the rain from his eyes and squints with gritted teeth at the figure overhead.

“I let you,” he wheezes out with a petulant sneer that he hopes shows properly through his cowl. The stale light from the rooftop lamps outlines cascading blonde, and a roll of distant thunder mingles with the clap of laughter that stills the storm. The metal smell of the city flares in his nostrils, framed by the scent of leather and musky perfume and blood.

The shoe leaves his throat and he immediately starts to surge to his feet, but a hand slams onto his chest and pins him back down, knocking the wind out of him. He has  _really_  got to get better endurance if he’s going to do this vigilante thing. And also a haircut, probably.

Brown eyes lock into his. A car goes by far below, and the rain starts falling harder.

“You wanna try saying that again?” she dares him in a murmur. Her knees hug his hips as she settles over him, one hand still firmly gripping the black velvet sack containing a priceless chunk of Balizanite. The black material of her catsuit stretches and strains against his red Kevlar. “C’mon, weirdo. Just try it. See what happens.”

“Don’t call me ‘weirdo,’” he grunts in lieu of virtually  _any_  other conceivable retort.

She snickers throatily again, her clawed fingers peppering a line up the middle of his chest and over his Adam’s apple. They stop there, pinching the lump until they draw just the smallest tincture of blood, and Stiles reels in a wince.

“Don’t get in my way,” she ripostes. When she withdraws her hand, she brings the sharp tips to her mouth and licks the sticky red off of them, smirking. Stiles should so not be turned on by that.

“Okay, but see, that’s kinda my  _job_ ,” he manages to wrestle out of his suddenly tight throat. “Seeing as how you’re a thieving villainous reprobate and I’m… plucky sworn protector of the city, and stuff.”

“Last time I checked, nobody was paying you,” she purrs back, clenching her thighs. “Or was that payment enough, hmm? Just because your dad’s the Sheriff doesn’t mean you’re a badass the second you pick up one of his little toys.”

“Wow, that is…” Stiles frowns. “Way more than you are supposed to know. Um, how—?”

“Story for another day, weirdo,” she tells him, fondly flicking his nose. Finally she stands, her black mask framing her face, the retracted goggles attached to them looking like feline ears at the crown of her golden head. There’s a scrape on her cheek, but her red lipstick is unblemished. She poses her free hand on one voluptuous hip, slinging the bag over her shoulder with the other, and cocks an eyebrow at him. “And a word of advice – girls don’t like guys who don’t know when to call it quits. Plus, I like you much better when you’re on your back.” She salutes him, cheekily, stepping backwards toward the edge of the roof. “Later.”

She backflips out of sight, like the showoff she is, and Stiles lays there, spread-eagled, giving the sky the most unimpressed look he can muster.

He doesn’t know why he keeps letting her get away.

* * *

“You look like crap,” Lydia snips primly the next morning, and Stiles scowls at her over his paper cup of coffee.

“Always the fountain of moral support, Martin,” he grumbles, taking a mutinous swig. Lydia  _hmph_ s in a high tone and goes back to the evidence drawer, her red manicured nails flicking through alphabetized files. “Although I have to admit, coming from you, that was… pretty friendly, actually.”

“It’s Monday,” Lydia bandies back, plucking out a manila folder and holding it in the air as she gives him one smug look while breezing back to the desk floor. “I’m going easy on you.”

“Oh, well, yeah, wow, tha—thank you, Lydia, that’s very annnd she’s gone.” He sighs, tossing back more of the coffee. It tastes slightly less like coal than usual.

“Rough night?” He jumps at the sound of Scott’s voice at his ear, practically flinging the cup at the opposite wall on reflex. When he whips around to glower appropriately at his best friend, he’s met with a cheerful, crooked smile and a pair of waggling eyebrows.

“Good morning to you, too,” Stiles grumbles, and Scott snickers, elbowing him lightly in the arm.

“I’m guessing She-Wolf gave you those?” he asks, pointing to the swollen bruise on Stiles’s cheek and the cut on his lip. “And… that she got away again?”

“Because I  _let_  her, okay, Scott,  _let her_ ,” Stiles hisses, waving a vehement hand. “And will you keep it  _down_ , genius; the  _precinct_  isn’t exactly the best place to start spouting off compromising—”

“Okay, I get it, I get it,” Scott cuts him off with an exasperated roll of his eyes. He leans on top of one of the filing cabinets, his tie as askew as his grin. “You could’ve at least  _called_  me, dude; why do you think I had Danny put that transceiver in your utility belt?”

Stiles shrugs. “Um, at the very least I know that it was probably  _not_  just so Danny could keep prank-calling me, which is literally all that it’s being used for, since I could be about to get crushed by Godzilla and you’d still be too busy staying over at Argent’s place to help me. At all. And I’m not about to die for your virginity, all right, dude; let’s just—”

Scott’s smile had only grown wider. “I took her out to dinner last night. We had hamburgers. She spilled some of her ketchup.”

“Good for you,” Stiles deadpans.

“And she let me come up all the stairs to her stoop,” he continues with the smallest of bounces, and Stiles swears to God he is not making this up; Deputy McCall is literally ten years old. “ _All of them_ , Stiles. Her apartment building has a blue door. And then I asked her to go bowling on Friday night, and she said  _yes_!”

“Heartwarming.” Stiles’s nose twitches as he scowls. “Can’t even stand it.”

“I found out her first name, too,” Scott says, and when Stiles looks at him in shock, he nods several times, biting his lip.

Detective Argent lives in mystery. She refuses to let anyone in the office know her real name, going so far as to black it out with Sharpie on her badge. “You people already know too much about me,” she says matter-of-factly, but Stiles knows exactly one fact about her, and that’s that she has made Scott walk into the glass entrance door seven times because he’s been too busy smiling goofily at her to look where he’s  _going_  once in a while, Jesus, Scott.

“Well?” Stiles finally demands when he doesn’t say anything. “What is it?”

Scott rests his chin on his crossed arms and gazes reverently at the ceiling. “Allison.”

Stiles blinks. “That’s…” He shifts, curling his lips in pensively. “Anticlimactic.”

Scott’s face immediately morphs into a stiff frown. “It’s  _beautiful_.”

Stiles raises his hands defenselessly at either side of his head and forgets he’s still holding the cup of coffee. He yelps and flinches when it spills, scalding, onto his shoulder, and  _that_  sure seems to put a smile back on Scott’s face. It only lasts for a few seconds, though, before something catches his eye over Stiles’s shoulder and he immediately sobers, straightening.

“Don’t look now,” he whispers, “But Reyes is totally zeroing in on you; she’s walking over—she’s, like, ten steps away now – twelve? Eight. Seven—”

“And the batter knocks it out of the park,” Stiles snarks out. And then the words catch up to him. He pales. “Oh…”

“Bye, buddy,” Scott squeaks, clapping him once on the shoulder before vanishing among the rows of evidence boxes, and Stiles barely has a second to breathe before a hand grips his arm and whirls him around.

He gulps.

Detective Erica Reyes is from Hale’s precinct on the other side of the city with all those other weirdos (like Boyd and, ugh,  _Lahey_ , goddamn pretty boy), but that doesn’t stop her from swinging by theirs to aggressively compare notes. She wears a lot of black leather and straightens her blonde, blonde hair and uppercuts anyone who makes any kind of mocking comment about her epilepsy. She’s terrifying. And freakishly good at catching perps, too, if Stiles is being honest here.

He’d known her back in high school. She’d been a lot feebler then, a lot more scared of herself, but in the years since she’s grown into her stiletto boots and gun holster and never messes up her lipstick. She’s given him three black eyes since he was sixteen.

And she is really,  _really_  pretty. It feels weird, calling someone like Detective Reyes  _pretty_ , since at best she’s harrowingly sexy, but he’s always kind of thought it. He remembers the teal blue dress she’d worn to prom. He remembers asking her to dance because it seemed  _right_ , and he remembers the way her eyes had sort of illuminated; he remembers only stepping on her feet once.

Now, judging by the look in her fearsome gaze, there’s a decent chance she’s about to step on his testicles.

“You’re a little jumpy today, aren’t you, Stilinski?” she drawls, cocking one curved eyebrow and smirking with a tilt of her chin. “What’s with your face? Lose a fight?”

“You should see the other guy,” Stiles says, failing at appearing blithe. “Girl. Uh, guy.”

Erica cocks her head and curls her crimson lips up higher. “Mmm. A badass, huh? Rowr.”

The growl does not make his knees shake. Nope.

“Hey, listen, do you, uh…” Stiles stutters out before his brain can catch up to what he’s about to ask. “Do you… wanna get, um, drinks? Sometime? In the future? I mean, uh, I’m actually a total lightweight, but we could… get peanuts, and, um, root beers, or Cokes, or whatever.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Scott hiding behind a stack of case boxes and mouthing something feverishly at him that closely resembles “ _What the hell are you doing?_ ”

Stiles winks at him before turning back to Erica and straightening. He keeps his eyes riveted onto hers because oh- _kay_ , that shirt is low.

She considers him, her golden-brown irises flicking analytically up and down his form, and he honestly can’t tell if she’s trying to figure out how he works or how she could most efficiently murder and then eat him. Probably both, actually, knowing Reyes.

She crosses her arms at her (very nice, very supple, 10/10) chest and shifts her lower jaw slightly to the side in thought, narrowing her eyes.

“Okay,” she says very suddenly, as though she’s just settled a very important matter, and unravels her arms again.

Stiles’s mouth creaks open into a gawk. “Uh… Wait, sorry, what?”

“Okay, weirdo,” Erica says. “Drinks it is. But I’ll be taking a few tequilas, thanks. We’re not  _all_  sissies.”

* * *

“You can just… stop right there,” he says, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice as his arm pins She-Wolf to a brick wall by the throat. “Yeah, there we go. You got someplace to be? Hope not, ‘cause you’re going to jail.”

She-Wolf squirms hard against him, but he holds her in place, reaching with his free hand for the computer chip clenched between her fingers. Her flaxen curls tumble over his elbow and her scarlet lipstick is still immaculate and her costume conforms to every curve on her body, her protruding wristbones, her prominent hips.

“I could get out of this anytime,” she breathes, though she sounds more exhilarated by the fact that he’s shoving her harder against the wall than nervous. Her clawed hands scrabble at his wrist and she bites her lip. “But I won’t.”

“Okay, can we make the banter as concise as possible tonight; I’ve got a date,” Stiles says.

“A date, huh,” She-Wolf repeats in an intrigued purr. “Hope you’ll show up in this outfit, hot stuff. You’ll be a real hit.”

Stiles’s costume is Red Robin-inspired. He’s still working on it; shut up.

“ _Don’t_  make me bring out the grappling hook,” he tells her. “Okay, so, tell me. Who’re you stealing this for? I sure as hell know it’s not for yourself, because you couldn’t care less about a few scandalous photos of the mayor and some waitress, so spill. How much’re they gonna pay you for these, huh?”

“Enough for me to take a special guy on a date of my own,” she replies. Her tongue curls against her teeth on the  _L_ ’s. Stiles forces his eyes away. “Jealous? Don’t be, honey. I’m flexible.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you—” Stiles starts to retort, but suddenly, she’s gripped his arm in her hands and twisted out of his hold, ducking under his spread legs and somersaulting to her feet on the other side enough to slam  _him_  into the space she’d just been occupying. It all takes maybe a few seconds, and when Stiles’s brain catches up to him, She-Wolf’s mask is closer to his face than it had been earlier, and he can smell her breath, and her other hand is flattened against the wall right next to his head.

He gulps.

“Well, uh,” he says. “That was… impressive. Impressive trick.”

“When are you ever gonna learn?” she coos as though she’s talking to a pitiful infant, and Stiles opens his mouth to bandy something back, but suddenly, she’s leaned swiftly forward and those red lips have crashed onto his, and she’s skimming her teeth over his lower lip, and everything in his head is a wailing siren.

His hips move against hers of their own accord and she grinds responsively against him. He breaks away gasping.

“I’m all tricks,” she finishes, in his ear, her claws curling into his upper arm and breaking the Kevlar, breaking the skin. She withdraws, and Stiles’s tongue feels starved. “Keep the chip, Wonder Boy. I’ve got a date tonight, too. He’s much cuter than you are.”

The alleyway is empty within seconds. Stiles gulps, and tries to slow his breathing, and, after a while, raises the fist closed around the computer chip to eye level and opens it.

Instead, there is a crumpled piece of paper clenched there, and no computer chip to be found. Smooth, Stilinski.

He pulls the corners apart and smooths it out, the flickering streetlamp overhead bathing erratic white onto him, fracturing his shadow.

 _Call me_ , it says, but there’s no number written on it.

* * *

The next time a mob boss is beating him shitless in an alleyway, a pair of black stiletto heels puncture the guy’s eyes and kick him to the ground.

Stiles still doesn’t say thank you. Reyes gets him drunk and doesn’t even try to kiss him; they go back to his place and watch  _The Dark Knight_  and when he wakes up in the morning, her jacket is draped over him, and there’s a note in the pocket.

 _Call me_ , it says, and a series of numbers follow it, and Stiles forgets to call at least seven times. 


End file.
